Sinners
by Al D. Baran ou Pervy Otaku
Summary: For the FrUk: Loving You Through Time Event. Arthur, a member of the Templars, writes a journal almost ten years after his first Crusade, the Eight Crusade. FrUk, Historical, character death, nsfw, one-shot, completed. X-posted on Tumblr (elucubrxtions) and ao3 (spankreich) More warning inside.


**Sinners (Love Must Be A Sin)** _ **(FrUk Loving You Through Time Events)**_

 **Title** : Sinners (Love Must Be A Sin)

 **Summary** : Arthur Langlois, an ancient crusader who had fought in Saint Louis' last crusade, compiles his life in a journal, speaking mainly of his tender liege, Francis de Bonnefoy.

 **Time** **Period** : Eighth Crusade (1270) to 1307.

 **Rating** : Explicit or NC-17.

 **Warnings:** Unsafe homo sex, talks a lot about poop so if you are uncomfortable with this, please mind this. The dates written are those of the writing of the logs, not when it happened.

" _You showed me feelings I've never felt before_

 _We're making enemies, knocking on the devil's door_

 _But how can you expect me not to eat,_

 _When the forbidden fruit tastes so sweet?_

 _So let's be sinners to be saints_

 _And let's be winners by mistake_

 _The world may disapprove_

 _But my world is only you_

 _And if we're sinners then it feels like heaven to me"_

— Sinners, Lauren Aquilina

.

.

.

 **00.**

 __ _September 5, 1307_

I have always been told I should write. I've been told I was good with words; as long as they are written, I guess that is true. When I write, I can feel an easy flow. All in me comes out without troubles, my feelings are clear, my head rested and my sentences wonderful. Yet, when I speak, I stumble upon my words and I cannot say much. By writing all this, I wish to record everything that has happened.

I am aware I do not have much time left. Most of us have fled the country; we know of Philippe's dark designs. I've chosen to stay in France and die; it has been years since I haven't lived with passion—lived at all, to tell the truth. The fire that was inside me is gone… I've replaced it with bitterness, then anger, then sadness. Now I am older, much too old and there's nothing left for me, of me and I will leave nothing behind. No one will miss me. I have not seen my parents of brothers in more years than I can count.

If the last thing I do is to save a few of my brothers' lives, I will die in peace. I am not scared of the fires. They cannot hurt me, for I will meet worst fires next. These writings will never contain our secrets hence, if you find this—if Phillippe's men didn't destroy it during their rampages—, I assure you that you will not find how I have been initiated to our Brotherhood. This will be a mystery I will keep intact, inside me. It was the only thing that kept me going forward, to be amongst my brothers.

What I want to write, to remember, is about someone I hold dear. It is about war. I've died there too, but somehow, I came back. I am no ghost, but I feel this way. When he died, he brought my soul along with him. I had a fire before, I had passion burning inside of me… Now, all I do is drag myself through the days, remembering the secrets I hold, alone.

 **01.**

 _September 07, 1307._

His name was Francis de Bonnefoy, the seventh son of a small, but wealthy Lord of Brittany. He had received a good education, knew how to read, write, composed poetry and songs, played the harp and lute. When I first saw him, I thought I was dreaming. There was a grace and beauty in him I could not explain; as if I remembered his smile. I was overcome with such great emotion, I almost wept just there, on the spot. Francis was special… his laugh was booming yet soft, his smile gentle and bright. There was an aura around him, as if he was an angel, ascended from the skies to protect us, recruits.

It would have been fitting. An angel that would go on the road of the Holy Land.

For my part, I was nothing special. I had crooked teeth, something I had been told was very English—they nicknamed me Langlois for it. I had freckles everywhere even though my hair was a fair blonde, thick eyebrows… I was nothing I thought would catch the attention of an older page like Francis. Peasants and nobles never mingled much… I could only admire him from afar. Back then, I never realized it was just what I was doing; admiring. I commented on everything about him, called him arrogant in my own mind, conversed with myself profusely about how irritating he seemed.

And yet he came to me. About on the third day, a smug smirk on his pink lips, and looked at me with curiosity. I took it for mockery, glared with venom dripping from my stare.

"Leave me alone," I told him, just like I had to everyone in our group of recruits for the few days we had been there.

Francis laughed, taking a swing from his gourd as he just shook his head with a smile. "No. I've seen you looking at me. You seem lonely. That rough look you give yourself never fooled me."

I scoffed… I wasn't feeling lonely at all. What was this guy going on about? Even if I barely spoke to anyone beside necessities, I never felt the need to. I was there to fight and free the Holy Land from the Muslims. Not glory like someone like Francis had to be there for. What would he inherit? A small plot of land at the end of his father's estate? His brother would be the ones grabbing up everything that could be good. Francis would have ended up on a rocky cliff, somewhere nothing grew.

There was a smart light in his eyes, still. Something mischievous that could only charm anyone who looked inside them. H would have made that rocky cliff an enviable place to settle upon, through wits and charming those he needed. Maybe I'd be there too, today. I'd be a serf, his liege. I could have become a faithful knight. Now, all of this sounds like a romantic hopeless dream. What a child would want.

I only sighed in response. Francis handed me his gourd, wiping the water on his lips. It glistened in the hot sun. I watched him, almost mesmerized. Francis looked at me too. It was an odd moment; I'm not sure what happened, what kind of will God had for us, but there was something between us. I accepted the water, begrudgingly, glaring up at him.

He smiled, apparently quite happy to see that I was drinking up. I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore him. Francis only smiled more. "Where do you come from?" he asked, answering before I could say a word. "I'm from Rennes."

"North of that," I said. "Close to the sea."

"A fisherman, I see!" Francis answered, beaming as if my heritage had any kind of interest.

As odd as our first meeting seemed to me, even then, I knew we had something. A bond, if I can call it this way. There was something between us, about us. I couldn't know then the importance it would have for me…

 **02.**

 _September 19, 1307._

As another fight was preparing, we were trained without rest. For days on end, I would spend days, along dozens of other young men, training to the art of the sword. I was no good at it, yet, I proved my archer skills without problems. Francis was better with swords. Somehow, we ended up spending our days together. Between training and the meagre free time, we barely left each other.

Francis taught me how to read. I suppose it is one of the good things you discover when your friend has received an education… He was not the best teacher, but after a few years, I can now read and write conveniently. I am no minstrel. Francis, however, was. During the times we spent alone, he played songs for me. I think I fell in love easier with his voice than himself.

We barely agreed on anything. The fact we came from such different background probably helped our quarrelling. He would say red, I would say blue. This, or that. Sometimes, we disagreed for the sake of discussion, for the sake of carrying on talking. We barely left one another. I knew I couldn't have spent a day without his hugs, the annoyingly caring way he kissed my forehead to annoy me. Francis and I were made to spend time together: we were night and day yet we fitted in mysterious ways and there couldn't have been another way.

There is still loathing inside me for what I am. A sodomite. This is probably what they will accuse me off. I never took wife, never kissed a woman. I know a few knights who disobeyed and slept with women in the Holy Land, were they willing or not.

I did not.

I spent nights awake, terrified by my own feelings. I tried to distance myself from him, seeing the pain it caused us both, stopped without questioning myself. I apologized profusely, still tried many more times. These were feelings I could not control… I knew there was something wrong with me. I noticed things about him I never did about others. The way his cheeks had tiny, lovely dimples when he smiled and laughed. The tipping of his head when I asked him a question that required a deep reflexion. The timbre of his voice as he sung, somehow different and just like his usual voice.

I was destined to Hell, yet it was a road I couldn't stop. I needed him close. He needed me, too.

Maybe we were both headed this way, then. I still wish he had taken another road.

 **03.**

 _September 22, 1307._

Our relationship slowly deepened as the time of our departure for the Holy Land came closer. First, we held hands, stammering out timid words. It was no words of love; we simply told each other we needed to be together. Whether it be friendship or liege. I swore myself to him, as a serf. I was young and naïve… as if swearing allegiance to him would have changed much. As if I, a fisherman's son who had took sword only with the desire of adventure, could have protected him.

We knew we would be loyal to one another. We invented each other a future for when we would come back, crowned with glory and military feats. We sang the songs we said they would sing about us, about young men saving the Holy Land, restoring its rightful ownership. We laughed, bouncing around, swirling around each other as we invented our own stories.

But most of all, we held hands and touched. It was as if natural… something led us there. Slowly, our hands entangled. It felt as if our hands fitted like puzzle pieces. No one else's hand would ever feel so warm. Even with all the training, his hands were still soft and warm when they were against mine. We proceeded slowly, as if denying what we did, in the cover of a building or our bedroom walls, wasn't tainted by something.

We were sinners and we knew it. We thought of each other in ways men shouldn't have.

It kept me awake at night, for longer than most would have had been. It still does. I have kept this secret for so long, and yet, most night, I awake, covered in sweat and bellowing in fear, still seeing my ancient brothers bringing me to a pyre, or dropping me straight into the fires of Hell. Sometimes, both visions become one. I am engulfed in the fire, to next see the Devil laying its glowing eyes on me, welcoming me to an eternity of suffering with a toothy grin.

I know Francis dreamed of similar things too. Of being disowned, murdered by the mob. Sometimes his own father would be taking the knife. I held him close as he told of these stories, shaken to the core. I could barely take the sight of him trembling, terrified of his father beyond wits, almost convinced he was hiding somewhere, seeing our fleeting touches, seeing the way we merely looked at each other, as if affection was proof enough to burn the both of us.

Francis was a sensitive and fragile soul. I soldiered on, scared too, but thinking my friend still needed someone to hang to, someone with a cold head. I felt as if every stares of our brothers were knowing ones, as if the Devil himself had let them on, on our secret nights tangled together, hands joined, purely needing one another. I kissed his hands, sometimes his forehead, his sleepy eyes. Francis had a pristine skin, a beauty none others had.

I watched over him every nights, determined to keep him safe, my determination never wavering even when we fought daily about any little things, our two minds clinging like opposite magnets.

Eventually, we breached the last thing that stood between a platonic relationship and lovers. A kiss. It was simple, innocent, awkward. We had been together, Francis telling me how to read with poems about love. I found myself in each of them, of the way I looked at Francis with both adoration and tenderness. Of the beauty that was held within Francis, untouched, of his smiles. Somehow, I found myself pushing the book down, staring into his deep blue eyes.

He turned toward me, lashes batting with curiosity. I hesitated for a moment, licking my dry lips, swallowing. I thought that I was now or never. We would be dying the Holy Land for our sins soon, after all, as God knew our deepest secrets and the desires we confessed, unable to stop our yearning. He knew what I wanted to do, cheeks dusting with the faintest blush, lips deliciously pinks. I leaned in.

His lips were softer than a peach. Both of our eyes closed, our hands joining on the paper. I left him a second after. The damage was done. We looked breathless from a tiny pecks, staring into one another's eyes with a terrible fear, both of us turning around to make sure no one had been there to see us. He gripped my hand tighter than ever. I was convinced he'd leave, flee and never speak to me again, I gripped back.

Francis leaned toward me, closing the distance between us in an instant, crushing our mouths together for a breathless kiss, our faces pressed against one another. "No one can know," he said, a sob wrecking his voice. I fisted my hand in his shirt, and Francis pulled away to look at me, both hands holding my face. "No one can know."

"I know," I said, trembling from terror. If they knew, we would both be emasculated. Perhaps Francis' status would save him, but I knew it was what was in store for me. It wasn't what scared my tender the most, and I pulled him close.

"Our secret," I whispered. "I cannot… I cannot carry on without you… without you, like this—like we just… Francis. I need to kiss you… like in those poems. In those books. Please…" It was a visceral need. One stronger than I thought I would ever have had. Something pushed me to speak to this infuriating noble… something had led me to kiss him.

"I do too," he whimpered, looking up to me with wet blue eyes. I kissed his tears away and he smiled, snuggling against me staring around the empty room before stealing another on the corner of my lips. "Since… since I saw you. I knew nobody would… I knew we would be together. In whatever way it had to be." His hand trailed to my cheek, his eyes slowly rising to my eyes.

"Don't leave me," he said.

I said I would never. And he only smiled, as if already aware he couldn't promise the same.

That night we slept in a tight bundle, my head under his chin, our hands in the small of our backs. The way we somehow had taken was one that would lead us to suffering, death or worse. I was set on protecting him, to never let anyone hurt him. I wanted to keep his smile, to keep our banter and playful fights safe from the harm of the world, which now looked like the most hostile place.

We were sinners fighting for the Holy Land's retrieval. Irony never killed.

Or so I thought then.

 **04.**

 _September 24, 1307._

Time passed, as did our departure, barely weeks later now. We kept out secret safe by being extra-careful. We barely touched in public, both paranoid any light graze could have told of our secret meeting at night. Sneaking out in each other's bedroom was complicated enough, but we always managed to find the way to avoid any on-lookers. We barely slept, cuddling with urgency, hands roaming across our bodies. It was nothing sexual—we both convinced ourselves that crossing the line to a sexual relationship would be what sent us to the fiery pits of Hell that awaited us.

But we touched. And we kissed. Our lips always found themselves, even in the dark. My kisses landed on his scrubby chin often, his against my nose, just between it and the cheek. Sometimes, I dared to kiss his neck, as I had seen lovers do. Peppering his pristine collarbone with love, as he touched my ribs and stomach. I ran my finger along the trail of hair leading to his pants. There was a carnal, primal thing inside me that urged to touch him there, to grab his cock and stroke it hard. I pictured the fiery pits of Hell inside my head to stop myself.

Francis was the first to touch me there, more curiously than anything else. The night he did, I gasped, tense, fearing for the sanctity of my soul. Francis didn't want to stop, I heard him breathing hard, his head laid against my shoulder, humid forehead against my neck. I became harder easily as Francis' fingers touched the hair, the length, my testicles.

"It's so warm," he murmured, as if expecting it would be anything else.

"Yeah," I said, becoming warmer, my breath itching because of the tiny sparks his slender fingers sent on my cock. "We can't…" I swallowed. "We can't come, you know."

"We can touch…" Francis said, pout audible in his words, taking my hand to put it inside his own pants, letting out a tiny moan as my fingers felt around his underpants. His skin was even softer there. I buried my fingers inside the coarse hair of his pubis, touching his testes before wrapping my hand around his penis. It seemed thicker than mine, hardening easily under my wandering hand.

Again, he kissed my neck, pulling me out of my clothes. The cold air did nothing to help the hardness. I felt my tip peak out of its sheath. I hesitated for a second before doing the same with Francis. We stared at ourselves with the curiosity of children. I was longer than he was but Francis was thicker. I touched the tip of his, it leaked precum onto my fingertips. I somehow wanted to taste it.

He gasped, his other hand gripping my thigh. I felt myself wondering how sodomites penetrated one another, unable to understand how I could have fitted inside him. I knew it was through the anus, but… This was a small place. I tugged his loincloths down, reaching to touch his anus. It felt dry, Francis' breath itched as soon as I grazed it. The pre-cum on my finger helped me each inside. Francis gripped me harder, I looked back to him. The light of the moon spilled a bluish light on his face, I could see his anxiety mixed with excitation.

He pulled me back to kiss me deeply, his lips moving across mine with a promise of love. "Touch me," he said, bringing my hand back against his cock.

I swallowed nervously, "If you come… it's Hell, I… I can't do that to you, Francis…"

He looked at me for a moment, pulling away with deception. "I understand," he said, bitterly slumping back on the bed, getting rid of his clothes anyway, tugging at mine. "If we cannot do anything, please, stay in bed with me. Let us… touch. And not do anything."

And so we did. We laid together embraced, naked, enjoying the feeling of our skin, stealing fleeting kisses in the blue light of the moon. When I awoke before dawn to leave, I knew Francis was still angry about the fact I would do touch him more, but I was decided to keep his purity as intact as it could be. Kissing his lips goodbye, I dressed and left.

The incident was quickly forgotten, even if Francis often tried to have me touch him more during the nights we could meet. I refused, as the quivering little Christian boy I was, refusing to let him have more than fleeting touches. He was insistent, I felt guilty. But I would not waver.

The day we left, the sun shone over Aigues-Mortes in southern France. The travel from the North to there had taken a hard toll onto us. Francis was moody because of the traveling and lack of affection it put onto us and I knew the boat travelling would be no different. We had a few stolen moments, cherishing them like treasures. As we rode the sea to leave for the Holy Land, we saw the King himself, Louis IX. Francis was more than enchanted, watching him from afar. I, as a peasant, felt much less inclined lick the King's boots and polish his reputation for him, but I smiled at Francis' stories of how a good man he was. I guessed he was some kind of childhood crush.

The peasants themselves seemed unhappy about this new crusade. I had heard of my father's annoyance with the taxes, that the King had made them extremely high, only to save this lost place at the end of the world. My father had never been a good Christian. My mother, however, was a very pious woman. I learned prayers from her, to praise God and be good… I imagined how disappointed she was in me now, if she knew from Heaven what I was up to at night.

To all of our surprises, the first objective of the crusade would not be the Holy Land, but Tunis. Convinced by his brother Charles d'Anjou to come there because of enemy partisans who were there, the King thought it would have been a terrestrial base to attack Egypt. I never thought much of it, but it would be a grave mistake for all of us. I had this feeling in my gut as he announced Tunis, wherever it stood, and squeezed Francis' hand.

We were all reassured to hear the Church had agreed to such a decision. Back then, I thought, if the Pope wants it, it must be a good decision. Kings do not take decisions lightly either. Now I knew it had been lenience from the Church, who let the French King lead as he pleased.

Soldiers like us were doomed.

 **05.**

 _September 25, 1307._

Our first destination from Aigues-Mortes was Cagliari, in southern Italy. From there, we went to the hot sun of the desert of North Africa. Francis and I were both scared out of our minds at the idea of a real fight and clung to each other, barely speaking as we advanced. The first siege near Tunis was a was a disaster; without a well, we rapidly had too little water to sustain the immense army that was with us.

The next destination was Carthage, whose high walls stood over the plains, numerous wells at our disposition. We drank without end to our thirsts, the stress of incoming fight making us weary. Francis and I shared a tent, snuggled up in the dark of the cold nights. It was hot enough to cook a man in his armour. We spent most of our time without it.

The Mamelukes harassed our camps without end. Fearing an actual fight, we barely ever could get out of our armours. The rumour of disease started to spread through the camps. Weariness made us cynical. Francis and I joked about the Mamelukes and Tunis, about how futile it all seemed to us. We came there to fight, and yet, not a real fight came to us. The King ordered us to leave the Muslims to their retreat each time.

We awaited the arrival of Charles d'Anjou and his troops to attack Tunis with a maximum of forces. The wait was hard on all of us. We tanned and burned in the sun. If Francis' skin had been sun-kissed at first, looking sugary and delicious, both of us were now sun-burned. It was painful.

But the pain of sunburn wasn't enough. Francis became ill—I thought it was divine punishment then, but now, I know it was only Saint Anthony's fire—dysentery. At first, he vomited and had violent diarrhoea. I helped him as well as I could, seeing the shame in his eyes. The fever came soon after, then dehydration. I spent my time running between the well and our tent, laying him outside to keep him from the boiling temperatures of inside.

Outside was no better, however. I tried to keep him under some kind of shadow, brushing the sweat off of his forehead. The warmth of the desert only added to our misfortune. My lover was bloated and hunched over with cramps and there was nothing I could do. When I tried to make him eat something, he complained lightly that he was no hungry.

After a few days, I found him too delirious to move as I woke up, a foul odour rising from his blanket. I pulled them off, revealing he had shat himself, blood and pus feaces soaking his loincloths and legs. I undressed him without wait, hands trembling. Francis giggling, weakly holding onto my hands.

"Are you in a… in a naughty mood?" he asked, breathless, heaving a little, not noticing his own state.

I almost cried at how mischevious he looked, deciding to humour him with a broken voice. "Yes. Yes, Francis, love. I'm feeling very naughty… sadly it's daylight, my liege. Just lie down. I'll clean you."

"Mmhmmh… with your mouth, oh… naughty… naughty minx…"

I sobbed, pulling him up to lay him in my own bunk, using a clean cloth to lie under him. I trembled without being able to stop myself. I added his pillows to mine to keep his head up in case he vomited, rolling his blankets in a ball. Our neighbours, men I knew from our trainings saw my distress and offered to clean the dirty sheets for me. I agreed, throat tight as I got something to clean Francis, coming back to find him asleep in his own delirium. The water was cold, Francis hummed in delight.

It took me a moment to dry him, sending the last blanket outside to lie him down, staying next to him. I had a dreadful feeling, as if I was about to vomit, yet nothing ever came. I paced around nervously, knowing all too well this would end in death. I heard of the King's son dying. We had been there for barely a month.

It was a disaster. Next to Francis, I prayed for God to forgive me. If He let him live, I would leave Francis, I would dedicate myself to Him. I was desperate, sobbing against Francis without being able to stop myself. I wished to take his sickness upon myself. I cleaned Francis and helped him up when he needed to be brought outside, his delirium receding somewhat to be replaced by a strong bout of convulsions.

When he came to himself when night came over us, still a little delirious, Francis watched me for a moment, too serious for the state he was in. His lips were dry, cheeks and eyes sunken and pale. If he had had a healthy weight days before, he had lost enough to almost show his ribs. I kissed his cheek, his lips met my lips. I dared to kiss him, our mouths opening as our eyes closed, parting at the sound of a voice outside.

I closed the tent to allow us a moment of intimacy, as I had no ideas if we would have another time like this. Francis ran his fingers through my hair, we held with our eyes closed. I touched him, felt his burning fever under my fingertips.

"Touch me," Francis asked again, leading my hand to his crotch, voice raspy from his irritated throat. I hesitated lengthily, opening my eyes to look at his feverish ones. I did not knew if he was aware of what he asked me. He insisted, wrapping my fingers around his length. "Touch me…" he breathed out, hardening at the mere feeling of my palm, reaching into my own trousers to fondle me.

I felt like crying, but I knew Francis would probably die. Die because of the Pope ordering this damn war… of the King's need to take the Holy Land. Anger rose inside me without warnings. "Fuck God," I hissed under my teeth, kissing him with urgency. "Fuck God, fuck the King and this phony crusade."

"What about me?" Francis asked, a little smirk on his lips, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

It was so unexpected I couldn't help but laugh. "Fuck you too, then, Francis." I leaned back in to kiss him, sliding my tongue inside his mouth. I hesitated some more, as if coming back on my thoughts. Francis kissed me again, it was all I needed to start stroking him slowly, the movement soon being eased by the pre-cum I gathered on his tip.

Francis pressed his face into a pillow to stop his moans. I watched him, hardening at the mere sight of his red cheeks. He trusted into my hand, pulling his face away just in time to add, "Please… please take me." Pulling my cock out of my pants, he spat in his hand to start masturbating me. "Please. I want to know it. I want to know how it feel."

Now, I wonder if the urgency of his voice was because he knew, deep down, that he wouldn't spend more than two days more on this Earth. It broke my Earth, I had to oblige. Trying to stand up, Francis pulled my hips closer, sitting upright, looking up to my eyes as he swallowed my cock. I almost came instantly, biting my hand to stop a moan. My knees were weak from the furnace of his mouth…

He pulled away sooner than I expected, heaving to retch on my foot. My heart missed a beat. I had no time to be too annoyed, still as Francis looked up to me, scared we would stop now. "Just… let me clean this." I pulled my pants up, hurrying to clean everything to come back to him. Francis looked just as aroused as before, pulling me close.

"Want to try again?" I asked, almost deaf to my own voice as my heart beat so hard. Francis nodded, pulling me close, unlacing my trousers to take me back into his mouth. I ran my fingers into his silk-soft hair, feeling his warm tongue touch me everywhere.

"I want you to come inside me," Francis said, pulling away, burning blue eyes staring into mine. Spitting on my length, he tried to coat it as much as he could.

"Okay," I just said, unable to refuse him anything as he smiled.

I settled between his open thighs, slipping a pillow under his waist to give some leverage. After a few tries, I manage to find just the right position. As I slid inside, I hissed—it was dry and tight. Nothing but the head would get in and Francis sobbed.

"This is a bad idea." I couldn't believe we were doing this. How did they do?

"No! You _have_ to do it," Francis begged, hooking one leg behind me to keep me from going away.

"I'm just… it's hurting you, maybe we need… more spit." I tried without wait. Spitting as much as I could into my palm, I lubricated myself, trying to push into that tight ring of muscles.

Francis cried out again, muffling himself in a pillow, gritting his teeth. He breathed slowly, trying to relax, gripping his arm. "Do it. Do it… just… get inside."

With his leg, he pushed against my back to try to encourage me. "It's going to feel good," Francis added, face red with effort and pain. "Please… I want you inside me once," he begged. I had to oblige, closing my eyes as I pushed through his tight behind.

Francis muffled his cries of pain, crushing my forearm with his hand. With pain and misery, I was able to sheath myself to the hilt. My lover trembled softly, gasping for air, laying spilled on the bed. "I have a headache," he announced, eyes still closed in pain, voice barely above a whisper.

I felt awful. Francis was warm and pulsing around me. I could almost feel his heartbeat. "Do you… do you want me to pull out?" I asked, throat dry.

"No!" Francis barked, as if scolding me, opening his eyes to look at me, pulling me down to kiss him softly. "Just… some water. Please. And then… let's just… try to move, okay?"

"Yes." I was still unconvinced at this whole idea. It was so tight it was more suffocating than pleasurable to me and I barely imagined the amount of pain it had been on Francis if it had been hard for me to get inside, I could barely imagine how painful it had been for him. Taking my gourd from the ground, I brought it to his lips. Francis pulled it from my hands to drink its full contents, setting it back.

"Thank you," he said, reaching for my shoulder to pull me close. I obliged, barely seeing him in the darkness of our tent.

"Just… relax," I tried, attempting to move, hearing Francis take deep breath. His body resisted, his nails dug into my skin.

It was barely pleasurable, but after a moment, I was able to move. I could see Francis' efforts in the faint light to relax, even if I felt hardly good. I pecked his lips gently, caressing his cock as I trusted in gently, tentatively. The attention to his crotch seemed to make Francis feel much better, and I smiled gently.

"I… I hope you'll get better at this," he panted, mischief telling that he was only joking.

I gasped, faking to be offended. "Oh, really? Would you be better at this, Mr I won't clean horse shit because I am nobility?" I asked, laughing softly. It was starting to feel slowly better.

Francis chuckled. "Mmhmmh. I am a true lover… and you're not." He let out a soft moan. "Oh, Arthur, like this…"

I rolled my eyes. "Idiot." I kissed his lips. We were tangled in a mess of limbs, panting breaths and stuck together with sweat. I begrudgingly admitted to myself I was starting to feel good, warmth spreading inside me as I could do longer trusts.

"You'll have… you'll have the time to… get better at home…"

Francis' expression and noises gradually changed: from pained keens and squirms, they slowly changed to lovely moans and mewls. His hand left my arm to lace his fingers with mines. I kissed his knuckles, watching him with adoration, kissing his lips again.

"I can't love anyone like you," Francis murmured against my lips, using his other hand to hold my nape. "Tell me you won't love anyone like me…"

I breathed out, pushing out foreheads together. "How could I ever? No one's worth it like you."

I accepted the fiery pits of Hell, the hate of people, the pyre. Francis' kisses made it all worth it.

Soon after, Francis spilled between us. He was too tight for me to carry on without paining him, and I pulled out. He offered to clean me so he could finish me with his mouth and hands. The feeling was unlike any other, I decided to let him do. I limped to the well, filling my gourd and came back to him.

Francis had vomited again, numerous times. The five minutes I had left had been enough to leave him more feverish than before… I suspected the effort hadn't been a good idea. His stomach cramps were back stronger than ever, Francis folded over himself in pain.

"Sorry," he said, wearily, as I cleaned everything.

"It's fine." I was disappointed, but Francis' state had killed my arousal quickly. I kissed his nose, smiling, covering him with a thin blanket. "You can do that tomorrow. We'll just… pretend we're washing. Hide behind rocks and then… you could…"

"Get on my knees so my naughty lover can take me. Ah… what a good idea." I laughed, Francis smiled again.

"Get some rest, sweetheart. We can do more tomorrow," I ordered him with a tiny slap to his nose. Francis turned to his side without waiting for more. I placed the gourd in his hands, snuggling behind him on our bunk, as we fell asleep against one another.

 **06.**

 _September 30, 1307._

Of course, we never had the chance to do anything more. It's how things work in war, especially in camps. It's how life works. We were sure things would be fine… I convinced myself, as I laid awake at night, that somehow, we'd awake tomorrow and Francis' illness would become much better if only he slept on it. Dysentery was something many survived.

But we were at war. Those who could heal were overwhelmed by the amount of work they would need to do, and we were only crusaders. Way behind the King and his Lords. There was too many sick men for such a little medical unit.

When I woke, Francis was burning with fever. His skin was wet with sweat, pearling on his back and forehead, making his dirty hair stick to his neck and face. The foul smell of his diarrhoea was back: I could feel my own hips were covered in something wet and sticky. Pulling the blanket off of us, I saw he had been sick during the night, sicker than last night. Gasping, I stood up, taking a cloth to clean myself summarily, hurrying to put on some pants.

I laid Francis back on his now clean bunk, barely waking him as I did so. He looked more emaciated than ever. Throwing the dirty blankets outside, I attempted to clean summarily too, waking him up with me febrile movements.

"Arthur…" His speech was slurred, I peaked up. "My… it hurts…" He held his stomach, rolling into a ball over it, letting out tiny sobs.

"Do you want some water?" I asked, feeling as if the world was falling from my fingertips. If I had fell asleep thinking there was hope in the world, today, as I saw Francis hiccupping when I cleaned him, as if unable to realize where he was, I felt terribly small.

Francis nodded. I helped him to sit, letting him drink as I held and tilted the squash for him to drink, watching the water slip on his throat as he weakly suckled.

"We should get you washed," I proposed as he was done, only receiving a vague grunt for an answer. I dressed him, taking the blankets out and helped him up.

Francis had barely ate or drank during the last few days. As we walked, his footsteps were unsure and weak, he slipped more than once. He had to hold himself against me. I held him up, seeing the neighbour from last night—Antoine, I remembered—, picked our dirty sheets, sending me a compassionate look as he left to clean them. The pale light of dawn highlighted just how pale and emaciated illness had left Francis in barely a week.

His lips were dry, cracked and even when he wetted them, they seemed to stay as dry as before. His cheeks and eyes had sunk, his breathing rasped as he exhaled. I brought him to the closest river, undressing both of us. Francis gasped when we entered the water, awaking somewhat to look at me intensely.

I looked around. It seemed we were alone. I brought our lips together, pulling away to run my fingers in his blonde locks. "It's going to be okay," I said, voice wavering. I couldn't believe myself, feeling guilty for lying. "It's going to be fine." I sounded like I wanted to convince myself before him. "You're going to be fine. A little washing will make you feel better."

Francis nodded, sleepily leaning against me as I sat in the water, keeping him in front of me to start bringing the water up, rubbing at his thighs and buttocks to chase whatever was left of illness. Francis' hands were on my thighs, his head calmly lolling against my shoulder.

"Feels nice…" he mumbled.

I smiled. "Yeah… the water is cold enough… do you feel a bit better?"

He nodded, a tiny smile gracing his lips. "Yes. Thank you… you've been so good to me. And I… I'm sorry…"

I felt my heart sink at his apologies, but forced myself to smile, nudging him softly. "Why are you sorry? There's nothing to be sorry about. You… you're going to do the same for me. When I get sick."

Francis looked to me again, smiling too as he elbowed my side, looking as playful as ever. "As if… I'm a noble. I won't do dirty things like you little peasant is doing."

"Stay in your soaked underclothes, then," I joked, throwing some water at his face.

Francis didn't get better. After we were done washing, I helped him dress and walked us back to our tent to lie down in the shade of it. Both laid down in the vague coolness of it, I let him use me as a pillow. As the day progressed, I had to clean him again numerous times, even having to hold his head as he vomited when he was too delirious to keep conscious.

The night came again. Antoine helped me make our bunks with apologies for what was happening to my friend. If only he had known how much deeper than friendship our relationship was. I wept without being able to stop myself. He held me, his warm southern accent giving me enough comfort to carry on during the night.

I knew deep down that there was no hopes for Francis to come back to his senses. When I tried to have him drink water, he didn't even swallow. It spilled all over the bed. There was nothing I could do. I barely remembered the last time I had myself ate. I went out for a second, asking for Antoine or his companion to bring me a little food. An apple, whatever would do.

I heard the King, too, was sick. I faked to care before going back to my duty, holding my lover against me. I read his poems, feeling his soul under the fingertips as I painfully read the elegant words on my own. Francis spoke of me in the recent ones, writing hurried, speaking of something beautiful, something that ignored its beauty. I still own that book. I hoped I would be buried with it, but I have sent it amongst the documents my brothers brought with them, out of the country. I do hope someone can read them, someday. That someone will realize what a tragedy it was for Francis to die, without even knowing his name. That such a gentle, loving soul had departed.

Francis spoke of nature and the sky in most of those. Of the sun. The rivers, the sea, the cliffs and lakes. Of birds singing on a spring morning, of the flight of dragonflies in the night, over the soft breeze. The music of the wind has it slipped between tree branches. His words told of the intricate magic amongst the world, of the delicate feelings of love he had always felt for someone.

I put the book away as he awoke, looking rather conscious. He stared at me, more serious than I had ever seen him. His hands trailed over my cheeks, neck and collarbone. Francis touched me as if he had never seen me, or never truly did. He swallowed, letting out a tiny sob.

"Does your stomach hurt?" I asked him, worried, taking the gourd to push it into his hand, holding him close.

Francis shook his head, drinking half of the gourd, choking as he left it between us. "No… it's just… Arthur." He hiccupped, looking back to me with a smile. "I'm so glad you… I'm glad. I'm so happy you didn't… that you didn't come."

"Don't say that," I hissed, knowing full well what he meant.

"Maybe this is what God has in store for sodomites. Maybe… Maybe I'm sick because I've been turning you away from him… oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry."

"Francis!" I yelled, stopping myself to grip his wrists. "Francis. We went too far on that road to be like this now. Francis… I love you. A life without love…" How sad would it have been? I thought, my index caressing his lip. "If it means I will spend an eternity in Hell, I am glad it would have been because I loved you. Our Lord Saviour said to love one another… I love you."

Francis' jaw was tight, pulling his hands away to hold mine. "Why must this be a sin... I didn't think I would have been able to love someone like you… the world would have been against us."

"Don't say that." I felt something cold wrap around me. "You're my world. The whole world… in it, you're the sun. Francis… please. You didn't force me to… make love to you."

We were _lovers_ , not sodomites.

"I did it because I love you," I said, holding him close to me. "And I will do it again. I will do it once you're better. We'll do it… we'll learn how to do it properly… and then everyday… everyday, I'll take the time to love you properly."

Francis sobbed against me, uncontrollably weeping like a child, clinging to me as if I would disappear. "I love you so much," he said, sniffing. "I'm just… scared."

"You don't have to be scared, Francis. I'm taking care of you… you're going to be fine."

We spent the rest of the night in each other's arms, barely sleeping before midnight as we kissed tenderly. Francis fell asleep before me, I quickly followed, lulled by the sound of his even breathing, kissing his forehead with dreamy promises of fealty love.

I woke up again to the awful smell of sickness. Groggily opening my eyes to look at the sun creeping inside our tent, I turned to Francis. He was more peaceful than ever, I smiled, trying to pull myself out of bed when I felt how tightly he held onto me. I wondered if he had woken up before I noticed the awful truth. Francis wasn't breathing. Rigor mortis had settled in long ago.

I barely remember anything, but I assumed I screamed at the top of my lungs, holding onto him. This couldn't have been true… I still feel as if it can't be true. Sometimes I dream of him, alive, purring in my arms, lazily spread across me or suddenly coming up when I feel reading is difficult. I dream of him coming into my tent. And then for a moment, I think I've dreamed this whole life once I awake, convinced reality cannot be so cruel.

But reality is crueller than anyone can think it is. God had took me my only love.

 **07.**

 _October 12, 1307._

Antoine came to pull us apart. I was so shaken I didn't realize someone was taking me outside as they brought Francis out. I felt my brother's arms around me, another I didn't knew apologized, saying he knew Francis, that he was someone wonderful.

Wonderful. That was putting it mildly.

The world around me had crumbled. I barely heard people as they spoke, pretexting I was feeling a little ill as I went back to my tent. I was still too shaken to realize, but they had cleaned everything. Somehow, I remembered I was dirty and changed into clean clothes. Laying on my bunk without thoughts, I stared up to the canopy of the tent. It was warm outside. My clothes on the ground smelled, but nothing seemed to reach me.

I still don't know how long I stayed like this. I know they pulled me out to eat and wash, patting my back. Francis and I spent most of our time together, barely leaving one another. They assumed we were such good friends that it put me in such a state. I dragged myself out after that, painfully spending time with Antonio and those of our brotherhood.

Everything passed in a blur, as if every events happened too fast for me. I was still tightly clinging to our last night together, the way Francis' lips had felt the last time I had kissed him. He had seemed to be doing better… why had this happened? Even now, as I write this, so many years later, I can feel my eyes burn. I can still remember the smell. His smell… the one he had days before he was sick. He somehow smelled lovely. The way he smiled, hair blowing in the desert's breeze.

I heard the King and many noblemen had died. I couldn't find it in myself to care, only wondering why we were still inside this dry hellhole. Our superiors seemed to be very secretive about what they wanted to do now. All I wanted was to go back home or throw myself in the water of the sea. Soon, we learned that their plans was to wait for Charles d'Anjou to attack Tunis with full force. Our new King, Philippe III, was too young and too sick to do so.

It is then I met my first real battle—before were only scuffles compared to an actual fight. The Napolitano King knew their tactics, and gathered merchant ships on a lake near Tunis. The Mamelukes, fearing that thousands of new men would now land, decided that offensive was the best way to take how the situation had changed. Our late King's brother and Robert d'Artois led our troops.

We demolished them. The battle was the first thing that awoke me fully in a long time. I slashed through the infidels, angrily tearing them to pieces. I thought of Francis as I did, pouring all the anger I felt about his death. I covered my white armour in blood, finding another life in me. I could be a warrior. And it is just what I did.

After the negotiations with the Tunisian Emir were done, Edward the First of England, then a Prince, came to our desert. Seeing the war was already over, he went back to the Holy Land to fight. I followed him, thirsting for revenge on this destination, these wars that had took my only friend, only lover. I came back covered in glory, accepted into the Order without questions.

It's not a story I want to write. It would seem vain of me to retell how great I had been at murdering infidels. Murder isn't something I want to revel in the thought of. Isn't it punished by the church? I'm not quite a believer myself anymore, I have to add. It will gain me Hell, I know, but it all I want. Returning to Francis, even in the fires of Hell. It's what will happen. The way people has viewed us has drastically changed. The King has ordered to seize our properties and for our Order to be dissolved. Many of us have been arrested and executed already. That will happen to me soon, too.

But there's a fire I will meet only days from now. And it will be with my head high. If our King believes he is going to take away all of us, he is wrong. At least, he cannot take our pride. If I burn, it will be while staring into the executioner's eyes. While he holds the fire that will murder me, I'll watch him, make sure he remember the man who stared at him as he burned.

I'm coming back to him. Death bows face to our love. It yields and dies, withers and disappears.

If we are sinners, then love must be a sin. All those who love truly are punished.

Love has to be a sin.

 _La Fin_

 **Historical notes**

And now, let's see just how shitty I am to explain literally anything.

Langlois is the old way to say "Englishman". It changed not so long ago. So François just means Frenchman. Yeah. Last names didn't quite exist back then, so Francis de Bonnefoy just means his estate's name is Bonnefoy.

Well, first of all, let's get to the centre of the story: the goddamn Templars. You might know them because of Assassin's Creed. Yes, they are indeed real. No, they're not trying to control us or the world. In fact, even Assassins existed! Sadly, they probably weren't cool parkouring dudes. Actually, _Hashishins_ (meaning users of Hashish, a pejorative term), were an Islamic sect or the order of Nizaris Ismallis, posing a treat to the Turkish Seljuq authority in about the late 11th century. The more you know.

But, let's get to the thick of it. Why did Crusades happened? Why is there fucking nine of them? Well, because Europeans are tenacious dickheads. Also because hey, Christians are tenacious as fuck and you could come back from there covered in glory. And of course, you could be absolved of a shit ton of your sins. Quite a good thing, if you live in a time where taking a shit for more than five minutes is a sin. (Joking, of course.) So the first Crusade was mainly led by peasants namely by Pierre l'Ermite and Gautier Sans-Avoir. Most of them were very French anyway (actually, the only mainly Brittish crusade was the last one by Edward I of England, then prince). So these pilgrims made a huge damn mess everywhere they went, even making Emperor Alexis the Ist just let them go even though he proposed them to wait for the baron's crusade.

And then the Turks found their asses and made a huge pyramid of their fucking bones. The Crusaders knight found them when they went there. And that is what we called the popular crusade.

And then this scary asshole Godefroy de Bouillon. Basically they won back Jerusalem, proposed him to be King of it and he just said no because he wouldn't wear a crown of gold where the Christ wore a crown of spines. And then you say French people are vain. And then he died a year later eating a fruit. Yeah. The history of Crusades is quite long, so let's just say it was a tennis match between the Arabs and the Europeans because holy shit that's where we murdered Jesus give it back. And also times were Crusaders ate human flesh that one time and murdered anything not Christians because they were stupid. Eventually, after 300 years of this, Edward Ist of England took it back and that was the end of it for anything interesting. Fucking Britons.

Now, let's come back to more interesting stuff. The Eight Crusade, the second of Louis IX's battles, was, again, a failed one. Saint Louis was a French King, the grandpa of Philippe IV le Bel, who decided Templars were a problem and they had to be eradicated. You know the story, Philippe was heavily in debt to them, the popularity of the order had dropped and the Pope himself wanted them gone. So they accused them of sodomy and sorcery—not that far-fetched seeing how mysterious they could be—, worshipping the black cat Bahomet, spitting on a cross and defying Christ. But please remember that then, the people would have believed anything the King said. If the King says so, it's true, end of the discussion. Well, it's one that's going to start again a bit later. But peasants were dumb.

You can theorize the Templars fled to the Alps, formed Switzerland as the rest of their brothers fell and also made Austria. So… we can assume they knew of Philippe's plans, hence, they left a couple of their pals there and went on to save the rest of their asses in the mountains. Some even say that, hundred of years after, they even founded the United States, as, several of the founding fathers were 33 degrees Mason, descending from members of the Brotherhood.

So they burned our pal Jacques de Molay and tons of people as well as took all their stuff on Friday, October 13, 1307. And that kids, is why people say Friday the 13th is a shitty day. The Templars had an inner order that was very mystical and mysterious. There is still little information about them. I took a great deal of liberty making Arthur part of that, even a little, since he was a peasant.

Something worth nothing is that people considered homosexuality to be the reason of famines and such. The law against it evolved slowly, but in France, around our time, in the XIIIth century, this crime against nature would be met with castration on the first offence, dismemberment on the second. A third time and you would be cooked well for the crowd. Same for lesbian activities. If you were found homosexual, the government would take your property, too. We can guess nobles—like Francis—were sometimes exempt of it because, hey money rules the damn world and especially church.

The last sentence is a little jab at the many, many love tragedies of history. How many lovers or mistress have died because of poison or such? Let's just take Henri IV, who almost ruined his country for love and probably died for it. His first mistress… the world is overflown with sad love stories. Could be divine punishment. Another thing worth nothing: men used to have very close friendship. If now grazing a dude is worth a couple HOLY SHIT MAN NO HOMOOOOO well, back then—up to not too long ago—it was normal to be close and hug. Hell, kissing on the mouth in the family is still considered normal in some places. So literally anything but mouth was pretty much normal. I _kinda_ tried to convey that.

I probably explained all of this very shittily, being all over the place with my passionate babbling. Anyway, I hope this helped you understand the story ; w ;


End file.
